


Lord and Lady Baelish At Dinner

by Marquise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, marriage AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 10:18:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5413109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mid-dinner entertainment. Set in the same universe as "Protection" and "Consummation," a few months after the latter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lord and Lady Baelish At Dinner

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ocularis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ocularis/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Consummation](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1227688) by [Marquise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise). 



“Are you settling well?” A question he could very well guess the answer to, asked as a way to break the silence that lay between them. It was pleasant in its own way, this sort of comfortable quiet, but Petyr so longed to hear her voice. He finally had her; he was done with merely _admiring_. 

Sansa smiled at that, her expression serene and controlled, and had there ever been a better look cross her face? In the months they had spent together he had watched her shape herself into the woman that sat before him, the whole of her acquiring an ease that eluded her in the early days. It was still not exact, this behavior—she did not have the mark of a truly practiced woman—but it was a start.

There was a sweetness under that smile that could not be forced. He had seen it before in her, and it haunted his waking thoughts and well as his dreams. He could almost reach out and grasp it, crush it between his fingers. So much of her had become shadowed, but there was still so much left to shape. 

The look she gave him was not that of a virgin. It was not one Ned Stark would recognize, but there was a remnant of that girl, there. How he longed to have that destroyed. That emotion, pulled from the twisted deep, sat on his tongue, sickening in its richness. 

“Very well, thank you.” As he thought, unnecessary. Sansa told him how she felt in the way her body responded night after night, in the soft mews she granted him when pressed against him. Their couplings were increasing in skill and in comfort, her pleasures more and more obvious with each passing encounter. He could not help but feel she had been told how a lady must _not_ act in bed, before realizing it was very likely she had been told nothing at all. 

He stood from the table then and moved to her side, passing the remnants of their meal. In this dying light there was a high loveliness to her, sharp cheeks and parted lips and pale skin. He longed to reach down and devour that fruit. He longed to see her blush. He longed to tear.  

 The need to push, to consume and to claim, was all he felt at that moment. The smell of her, the memory of her on his lips, the way her breath was starting to crack, the knowledge of what could be—it was stronger than any wine. 

The servants were outside, their voices faint through the stone. He could hear them on the rushes. They were close and they were known to gossip. 

When he reached his lady wife’s side he pressed a hand against her shoulder, fine silk and bare skin underneath his palm. She moved to rise but he would not allow it, holding her still, watching the way her brow shifted. 

Sansa did not protest. She trusted him, now. He had played it perfectly, waited until the right moment to _stretch_. 

“I’m glad you are pleased. I certainly am.” Fingers traced the line of her neck, dipped down to follow the edge of her gown. There was a breath caught in her throat, he could feel it. 

“Petyr…” His name was rough on her lips, a warning and a plea. She did not push him away, her fingers curling and uncurling in her lap as if she did not know what to do with them. “The servants…” 

He smirked, for that was it, wasn’t it? It was not the promise itself that displeased her, but the potential audience. This unease, the way she seemed to dance around what was possible, excited him more than any direct confirmation would. 

He was half-hard already. It would be shameful were she not so obviously eager herself. 

“Yes?” With his question his hands acted, moving her into a standing position, fingers light against her body. Her gown fell about her and her feet were uncertain; she had the bearing of someone lightheaded, though she had not drunk much wine. He held her close, gave her the chance to feel exactly what it was she did to him, before pressing her forward, allowing her to lean against the table. 

“Is something the matter?” A light question from him, one at odds with his movements. He was working his hands up her dress, cool fingers inching along bare skin, his goal completely obvious to them both. 

“I…” Whatever it was that she wished to asked, it died on her lips when his fingers slid underneath her small clothes. Nothing but her sharp and shallow breath could be heard as he dragged them down, fingers curling back to brush the damp and shameful space revealed. 

His free hand dug itself into her side, holding his claim.  

“The servants?” Petyr asked for her, as the pads of his fingers slowly dragged themselves between her lips. Sansa turned to look at him and he stopped her, hand on her throat to keep her still. He had seen her eyes at the time of release before, they had shared in the privacy of their bedchamber, and now he wished for the bit of pleasant removal that came with a hidden face. 

“They’ll hear.” The tone of her voice told him that Sansa knew that was a foolish and unnecessary thing to say even as she spoke it. Petyr rewarded her by not rewarding her, his fingers doing nothing to pick up their pace, the digits a slow drag against her dripping cunt even as her hips began to buck against him. 

“Really?” His own voice sounded good in his ears; he was in his element. “Is that a concern of yours? Do you plan on being loud, my dear wife?” Oh, how he loved to call her that! Usually that phrase was reserved for his mind, but he could not help himself but voice it now. It spoke of a claim that none could question. Why would it matter what the servants thought? Why should they care if he treated his wife like a common whore? They would whisper, they would _talk_ , but to what end? 

They could not touch them. 

Petyr held that idea in mind as he slid one finger inside her, noting each and every change that occurred as he did so. Her throat tightened, just so, against his fingers. A sound, like a sweet sigh, could be heard on her lips. Her body pressed against his, her skin flush, her whole being _changed_. Was there a man alive who would not be moved by that?

“Do you not want them to see you enjoy this?” He slid the digit out and then in for emphasis, lips at her neck now, nipping as he spoke. 

The smell of their meal filled his nose, the lingering notes of finery. He could not see her face but he could well imagine the bliss there. He pressed her a bit harder against the table, his movements fueled by an idea of what her dear parents would think if they saw them now. 

“Ever such a lady.” Another finger joined this one, in a slick and awful dance. His thumb brushed against the nub that lay above, just enough, and her mouth let out a cry that was far too much. 

His hand reacted swiftly, rising to cover her mouth with a slap, muffling the cry. And the fingers of his other hand increased, as if in challenge. The sound of her wetness was obscene in his ears as he fucked her roughly, fingers in to the knuckle, dragging an orgasm from her that would come from a place Sansa surely was unaware of. 

“Do you want them to hear you, sweetling? Do you want them to speak about what a whore their lady is? What she lets her lord husband do to her?” He pulled his hand from her core then, and her answering cry was entirely different. She didn’t have time to linger over that before he pushed her forward, her skirts falling upward, legs trapped in tangled smallclothes. He freed himself in an instant, and in an instant he gave her something a great deal thicker. 

The platters on the table clattered slightly, and the sharp sense of fear that rose in him only excited him more. Let them enter, let them see him take his Stark bride so roughly, let them talk and stretch the truth. Soon all the kingdoms would know his name, would know his worth, 

A hand returned to her mouth just as one returned to her core. Sansa gripped onto the table until her knuckles turned white, feet kicking at the rushes, the two of them sharp and muffled in their debauchery. 

Words left him, strangled by her cunt. He could do little but focus on the pleasure he granted her, on what a _sight_ they were, on the idea of gossip. 

She bucked against him a a fury, and could he ever imagine Sansa Stark in such a position? Her movements brought her to tighten against him, sharp pulsating waves of pleasure rushing over his cock, dragging him down with her. 

He filled her neatly. 

They collapsed, broken and stained, silks and sweat. After a moment he rose, his body returning to its prior collected form, even though his limbs felt that odd tingling ease that came after spending oneself. 

She pulled herself up, corrected her skirts about herself with an easy hand. It wasn’t until she looked at him full on that he saw the mark across her face, the faded red where his hand had rested.

He smiled, gently. “Well now, shall we ask for dessert?” 

 


End file.
